Zombie Allure
So I just finished reading* John Skipp’s and Craig Spector’s killer 1989 zombie anthology, Book of the Dead
When I was done, though, I got to thinking: What, exactly, is the big appeal of rotting corpses brought back to life, wandering around, more often than not repeating the word “brains” over and again, and mindlessly shambling about looking for soft, warm flesh to chew on? The fact that zombies are, indeed, a favourite of a lot of horror lovers is not even arguable, as the success of Romero’s Dead movies and the plethora of other zombie films and books can attest—and more now than ever after the success of Shaun of the Dead
But why? Why do I love to read about the sad bastards? Why do I love watching them devour living people, bits dropping off of them, a glazed look in their eye, as though they’re not actually murdering someone hideously, but merely dining out for the evening? Is it some deep-seated desire to, myself, get eaten alive by cannibals? Probably not. Do I have the hidden urge to do that very same thing to other people—my sixth degree of Donner peeking out a little, perhaps? Unlikely.
So what, then? What is it about the walking dead that we dig?
I can, of course, only speak for myself but, after examining the question a little, I think what fascinates me about zombies is that they’re us, but not us. I think it’s the same thing that fascinates us about the whole “body-snatcher” syndrome. They look like us, but they’re not who we are inside. Zombies, too, look like us (well, perhaps a bit less so, what with the sloughing, rotting skin and such). But, in both cases, they are evil versions of us. Body-snatchers rob us of our identity and go walking about committing atrocities in our bodies. Zombies rob us of our minds, our intellect, and shamble about eating other people—something we, as normal, rational, law-abiding, moral folks only shudder to think of. And I think a large part of the horror lies therein: these creatures are humanoid in appearance. Not only are they humanoid, they used to, in fact, be human. We’re looking into a mirror. We’re basically checking ourselves out—a few months in the grave, granted, but nonetheless still inherently us. Only thing is, for whatever reason—radiation, a passing comet, airborne chemical enzymes—we’re really, really hungry for living human flesh.
I find it interesting, though, that in most of the movies and printed fiction involving zombies, the still-living find so much enjoyment in killing the walking dead. Take away the human intellect and turn us into cannibals with only one thought on our minds—eating flesh—and we’re suddenly so detached from what that creature used to be that we find it easy to murder, to destroy. It goes beyond self-preservation and into undisguised glee. Which is, of course, what makes Romero’s Dead films—especially Dawn of the Dead
But I wonder if it were to really happen, how we would react. Would we really be able to destroy our dead so easily? Decapitate, impale, burn, chop up, rip limb-from-limb? I wonder if the innate attachment to each other as human beings would be too strong. In some cases, and for some people, I think it would be. I think some people, even with the threat of losing their own lives, would find it impossible to kill another person, regardless of what they’ve become. After all, many people’s fathers, brothers, mothers, aunts, uncles, etc., sometimes become monsters of a different sort, and they’re powerless to even leave them, never mind kill them for what they’ve become.
The other aspect that would make it difficult would be if the transformation was not their fault (which in most zombie fiction, it isn’t).
Of course, on the other hand, I think it would be very easy for other types of people to kill veritable hordes of walking dead folk, and have a good night’s rest to boot.
How hard would it be to blow the head off of your freshly dead mother as she stumbled back to the house after you’d just buried her hours before? She’d still look pretty much the same, ’cept for maybe some dirt clumps in the hair and under the fingernails. Could you saw off her head with that big-ass knife you’ve got in your kitchen drawer, if she came at you, teeth a-gnashin’? Sure, you know it’s not her, and you’ve read Pet Sematary
But yeah, you do what you must to survive, and if Ma wouldn’t stop until she’d taken a big fat bite out of you or someone else within reach, then you’d have to put her down. You’d have to become all those guys in the zombie flicks, trying not to think about what you’re doing, trying not to get all sentimental and teary-eyed over it, trying not to think about the consequences for your soul—should you believe you have one—even though it’s not really your mother. If she stays silent while you saw, it’ll be easier, for sure. But what if she whispers your name in her normal voice and asks you to please stop, you’re hurting her?
Zombies you didn’t know would be a hell of a lot easier to kill than ones you did know, that’s for damn sure.
*
The zombie is an extremely simple creation. Remove our intelligence and give us one objective: eat living flesh, anywhere we can get it. Make that our one and only goal—a goal we will not stop trying to attain even after we’re in stringy, wet pieces, flopping about on the blood-soaked ground. As long as our little pea brains are still functioning, we’re going to try to reach that goal.
Something surely must be said for a zombie’s determination. I think that sort of work ethic could be taught in the workplace or in high schools to great effect.
Perhaps that’s another part of the appeal—the zombie’s simplicity. It’s certainly the greatest source for zombie humour, anyway. But the lack of speed and intelligence is a contributing factor to the humour, as well. It wouldn’t be nearly so humorous if these determined eating machines could really move, as became the trend after Danny Boyle upped the ante in 28 Days Later 
But I think we need to laugh as well as be horrified by zombies. Zombies cannibalise without a second thought. Hell, without even a first thought. Most folks would have to be driven to that extreme by some mighty convincing set of circumstances. And even then we’d be plagued by vicious nightmares for probably the rest of our earthly existence. Not so for Joe Zombie. Joey Z would just as soon rip out your trachea, à la Fulci, as . . . well, tear off your arm and chow down like it was corn on the cob. Okay, so bad example. Tough to compare and contrast degrees of passivity when there’s only one thought rummaging around in a walking dead guy’s head. But you get the point—we admire Joey Z.
That’s right. I think we envy that singularity of purpose, that degree of ambition, determination, and certainty. Joey is fucking focused, son. So what if he’s not the sharpest pencil in the case? He knows what he wants and he’s damned if you’re going to get in his way.
Zombie allure. That’s what it is. Sign me up for some of that. What gal in her right mind could resist a fella who had his shit so together?
*
Here’s my theory: zombies are only scary if they catch you. When you just watch them, they’re kinda cute. Stumbling around, trying to re-enact habits from their previous lives. Trying like little kids to engage those dimly remembered motor skills. Falling over stuff, getting back up, just to do it all over again—the Little Dead Engines That Could.
Another nifty thing about zombies is that you can’t really hate them. What’s there to hate? There’s no personality, so all you can do is fear them. Pretty cool, that—fear without hatred. A noble concept, indeed. Readers of this blog who happen to be dictators of small countries should be taking notes.
I mean, really, you can want to avoid a zombie, sure, but only because he stinks and wants to eat your face. You can’t really stir up any other reasons for not liking the guy. He’s a very focused individual, as we discussed earlier; he’s pretty quiet, doesn’t talk much, keeps his opinions to himself; he’s completely on the up-and-up, no secrets, no ulterior motives—Joey Z’s a man you can trust. He is an exemplar of the human condition.
So there you have it. No grounds for hatred whatsoever. But you still fear him. Why?
Potential, that’s why.
Joey has the potential, should you get in his way, to eat you alive and screaming. He’ll do it quietly, vapidly, sans remorse. And he won’t stop until he has picked your bones clean. Joey Z’s a machine of the highest order. And just like a machine, you can’t hate him, you can only fear him.
Damn. Getting pretty deep, here. Who’da thunk walkin’ dead folk could be such philosophical fodder?
*This article was originally printed in Twilight Showcase, and reprinted here with permission by the author.
Brett Alexander Savory is the Bram Stoker Award-winning Editor-in-Chief of ChiZine: Treatments of Light and Shade in Words, Publisher of ChiZine Publications, a Senior Editor at Scholastic Canada, has had nearly 50 short stories published, written two novels, and writes for Rue Morgue Magazine.
In 2006, Necro Publications released his horror-comedy novel The Distance Travelled
Savory is represented by The Carolyn Swayze Literary Agency. He lives in Toronto with his wife, writer/editor Sandra Kasturi.
